Ice cream is a buzz word in our family. Growing up, summer ice cream was a staple at our house as Grandpa made the best vanilla ice cream known to human kind. With a slew of little kids around, he would simply mix up his secret recipe and then leave the rest to the grandkids. Each child would need to take 100 cranks at the icecream maker, counting loudly as they went along.
The process is what made the entire event so magical. In the first place, Grandpa would need to take a trip to a magical “Ice Machine’ in a dusty little village some minutes from his house. This was always a fun trip on which to accompany him. He, wearing his customary farmer overalls, would pile kids into the pickup. In those days, the excess kids might right along in the back. Yes. The open back of the pick-up. Funny, never I nor any friends ever blow out. We all made it to adult hood even without childhood seatbelts. Just amazing.
After we arrived at the “Ice Machine”, Grandpa would put a coin into a slot on the outside of this very rusty box, the size of a container. With a lot of noise and commotion, a tremendous block of ice would come shooting out. A big block of ice, 18″x18″x18″. I am talking a sizeable chunk of ice that Grandpa would hoist into the back of the truck with us. Back home we would roll.
In the shade of two huge mulberry trees, Grandpa would sit with an ice pick and chip away at the block. Sometimes he would use a hammer if we were getting to him a bit. But, in the end, the big block of ice was chipped into smaller pieces and we were ready to made ice cream.
VST knew, when the the chips are down, icecream can heal all wounds. It was in this frame of mind I remember him a year ago, today. VST was weary from all his procedures and lack of information about the source of his cancer. He continued to insist that he felt too good to be seriously ill, although the rest of us could see the toll the cancer was taking on our beloved VST. No longer the same in personality or looks, he was often confused, although always in a chipper mood. Our worrisome faces were something he couldn’t understand. We were all worry warts. We were asking him to go to the hospital for further testing. All he wanted was some ice cream.
We pleaded with him, asking him to find reason with our thinking.
He wanted Peanut Butter Chocolate.
We asked him to speak with his doctor.
Two scoops on a sugar cone.
We begged him to reconsider.
And sprinkles. End of story.
K and T took him for a quick trip to Carson City for Ice Cream that day. I stayed home in a bath of tears. Each day, he was slipping further and further away to a place I couldn’t go. Terrified, I cried and cried. But, in the final analysis, there was only one thing for sure, I was the one that got no ice cream.
I have my own ice cream maker now. There is no hand crank or need of many children to make it work. Plugging into the wall, it simply creates icecream in 40 minutes or less. It makes vanilla with a far simpler recipe than Grandpa’s. Although I can enjoy it under my Apricot tree, I am missing two magnificent Mulberry trees that still grow at the home place.
Ice cream. The food of champions. When life gets you down, have a cone, topped with whipped cream and sprinkles. One day later, it may be too late.